


Giving Thanks

by Guede



Series: Theory [10]
Category: Hornblower (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Derogatory Language, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Dinners, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Secrets, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Some things take more than a strainer to smooth out.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Guinevere/Lancelot, Galahad (King Arthur 2004)/Mariette (Hornblower), Gawain/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Series: Theory [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058675
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Adventures in Stuffing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005.

When Arthur found him, Lancelot was hunched up on the floor, curled in the doorway between the formal dining room and the main hall. He didn’t have a cigarette in his hand, but a thick cloud of smoke still hung about his face, and the edge of an ashtray peeked out from behind his legs. As usual, he’d yanked out the knot of his tie and his hair looked as if a hedgehog had tried to mate with it.

He tilted his head and frowned when he saw Arthur. “Is that Play-Doh in your ear?”

“Oh, damn. I thought I’d gotten all of it…” Arthur stopped taking off his coat in favor of digging out the offending bit of…well, of whatever went into Play-Doh. A sudden clanging from the direction of the kitchen made him dig his nail rather too hard into his ear. It also resulted in Lancelot using Arthur’s legs to do an excellent impression of a limpet. “Er.”

“She’s been in there since five in the morning,” Lancelot mumbled to Arthur’s knee. His hands nervously kneaded Arthur’s left ankle. “I went in to see if I could snitch a beer and she nearly took off my head with a gravy boat.”

Now that Arthur could see all of the ashtray, his eyebrows rose at the number of butts stubbed out in it. Lancelot wasn’t a heavy smoker—mostly because the smell clashed with his preferred aftershave, Arthur suspected—so that little detail made Arthur a bit worried. “I thought it was only her cousin who’s down at Georgetown that’s coming over.”

“Oh, yes, Elaine.” The fingers trying to pulverize Arthur’s ankle began to inch upward. A few let go to retrieve the longest butt from the ashtray so soon Arthur could feel the residual heat of the cigarette tip bobbing along by his leg. “Arthur, has it ever occurred to you to wonder why Guin is so touchy about you and other women?”

About as often as it’d occurred to Arthur to wonder about Lancelot’s similar behavior, but Arthur suspected he’d better not draw the comparison. He wadded up the clump of Play-Doh between his fingers, then finished pulling his other arm out of his coat-sleeve. The hem of his coat accidentally flopped over Lancelot, but the other man didn’t seem to mind much. Actually, Lancelot apparently took that as a signal to shift upwards. “Lancelot, has it occurred to you that you’re cutting off my blood circulation?”

“Oh. Oh, really? My apologies.” The fingers on Arthur’s leg loosened up enough to rub instead of clutch, which wasn’t exactly what Arthur had had in mind. Lancelot flipped around to mash Arthur’s toes with his arse instead of his knee and leaned his head against Arthur’s thigh, blowing meditative smoke rings. “Believe me, a cousin is not merely a cousin when they’re related to Guin. The men and women both. Make sure you know where Elaine’s hands are at all times.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Arthur dryly said. He more or less did that anyway whenever he was in public with either Guinevere or Lancelot, so he didn’t think it’d be too difficult a stretch.

“And so to the Play-Doh: you were attacked by a rabid group of grade-school tots on your way home?” The smoke ring Lancelot blew perfectly framed the innocently curious look he was giving Arthur. For that matter, his hand currently was wandering very far from the part of Arthur’s leg that was hurting.

Arthur folded his coat over his arm, then glanced at the bit of Play-Doh he had. Even in the darkened hall, it glowed with a suspicious brightness; he only hoped that Kitty’s daughter was able to keep the little girl from eating too much of it. “No, I had a kind of Thanksgiving tea with Kitty’s family, like I told you last night. She had the most marvelous crumpets—it’s a shame neither of you could make it over. And her grandchildren grow more adorable every year.”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes as he looked at Arthur. “In other words, they utterly steamrolled you.”

“No,” Arthur weakly said. “I—”

Someone took a sledgehammer to a sheet of metal in the kitchen, while upstairs a window banged open. It was a close call whether Lancelot startling between Arthur’s legs or Arthur’s own surprise would do him in, but fortunately, he managed to retain his balance. And he pried Lancelot’s hands off his thigh.

“What happened? Did Tristan trip and trigger the apocalypse?” Lancelot asked, rolling away. He got back onto his feet, then bent over to retrieve the ashtray.

“I have no idea. It isn’t like him to be so…Tristan?” Arthur went over to the staircase and called up it. There had been a spate of freezing rain the night before, but it should have melted by now. “Tristan?”

“We’re fine,” Tristan called back. “A squirrel terrified Galahad. I’ll clean up the spot, so don’t worry about it.”

The spot? Perhaps Arthur should…no, he’d vowed to himself that he was not going to succumb to nerves during this Thanksgiving. He stepped back down to where Lancelot was badly hiding his snickers.

“I really don’t know why Guin’s so worried,” Lancelot laughed, coming up behind Arthur. He briefly leaned against Arthur’s back, then crossed to the hall-closet and got out his coat. “We’ll just sic your grad students on Elaine and that should keep her happy. Speaking of, I suppose I should go pick her up from the train station now.”

He came back for a quick peck on the lips that Arthur resolutely refused to turn into an excuse to make Lancelot late. Which sent Lancelot out with a bit of a pout, but given that Tristan, Gawain and Galahad were coming down the stairs just then, Arthur thought he’d made the best of the situation.

“So, um, thanks again for having us over,” Gawain said. He awkwardly retucked the casserole counter he was cradling so he could elbow Galahad hard.

Galahad glared at him and finished disentangling himself from his scarf at his own pace. “Yeah, thank you.” He looked around with an elaborate casualness that made Tristan turn away to stare at the wall with a very, very blank expression. “Is Mariette here yet?”

“No, she stayed over at Kitty’s to help clean up. She should be along in a half-hour or so,” Arthur said, hanging up his coat. He turned around and held out a hand for theirs, taking Tristan’s first. “Guinevere’s in the kitchen.”

“Oh. So could I put this in there? It’s pumpkin mousse, and it kind of needs to stay cold…” Gawain was already edging towards the kitchen when Tristan, cued by Arthur’s sudden frantic look, tugged him back.

Arthur finished with Galahad’s coat and hastily took the dish from Gawain. “No, I’ll take care of that. I was about to go check on Guinevere anyway and see how dinner was going.”

A good decision on Arthur’s part, because when he stepped into the kitchen, he wasn’t quite sure whether he’d entered a place for cooking or a Turkish torture chamber. It’d be Turkish because he knew Spanish ones didn’t come with billows of steam and a beautiful, curse-spewing female head that appeared to be free-floating among them.

Old reflexes kicked in and Arthur let them carry him to where the refrigerator was so he could safely put away Gawain’s dessert. He lingered a little longer than strictly necessary with his head in the fridge because he needed the cold air. It was absolutely sweltering in here.

“Arthur? Is that you?” Guinevere said. “Where in God’s name do you keep the garlic masher? And we did buy more than a pint of heavy cream, didn’t we? Damn it, it’s probably curdled…goddamn it, what time is it? Is that bit—is Elaine here yet?”

Instead of answering, Arthur ducked beneath the steam and let memory direct him around the kitchen till he’d gathered up everything for which Guinevere had asked him. He still tripped a few times since his mental map of the area didn’t include free-rolling onions, crumpled wrappers or what he devoutly hoped wasn’t actually his _Joy of Cooking_ book smeared in drippings and run through with a steel kabob skewer, but his old training served him in good stead. When he finally stood up again, he managed to time it so Guinevere thwacked whatever was on the cutting board and not his hand, which was gripping the counter a few inches away.

“Lancelot just went to get her,” he told Guinevere. “The garlic masher’s on the right, there’s half a quart of heavy cream left in the refrigerator, and I brought you some lemon tarts from Kitty’s.”

“Oh, do I look like I have time for dessert? I’m going to die in this damned turkey.” She made a jab with something that flashed in the general direction of a slightly more humped section of steam. But her tone had softened a little bit. “Why the hell do Americans have to cook _turkey_? It’s probably not historically correct, and moreover, it’s too damn big to cook _every_ section properly in a standard oven. The breast is _always_ too dry!”

The oven in Arthur’s kitchen actually was a top-notch gourmet deal with a few extra settings courtesy of an extremely bored Tristan and one endlessly rainy afternoon, but Arthur didn’t mention it. He didn’t think Guinevere’s nerves could stand a correction at the moment, no matter how gentle it was.

She’d promptly turned back to what Arthur assumed was the counter by the sink and was chopping away at something. Sometime earlier she’d bundled her hair up into a bun, but since then it’d grown about as tight as a newborn baby’s grasp on walking. Arthur slipped around Guinevere, stumbling a little over something squishy on the way, then deftly reknotted it.

“I heard the window,” Guinevere said a little more softly. She turned her neck into Arthur’s hands, but shook him back almost as soon as he was done. “Tristan?”

“And Galahad and Gawain. I need to have a word with him—my second-floor windows aren’t built to take _three_ people picking their locks every day.” When the thud of the knife slowed for a moment, Arthur stepped forward and put his hands on her elbows. He winced and quickly shifted them to her waist, leaning forward to rub his nose at the base of her bun. She smelled of crushed herbs with a hint of roasted meat, a bit of a change from the sleek spice notes she favored in perfume. An appealing one, he decided. “Everything smells wonderful. It’ll probably be the best turkey Tristan has ever had.”

Guinevere laughed sharply and shook her head, but didn’t shove him away this time. “Either you or Lancelot is doing the cooking for Christmas. Dear God, Elaine is going back to Cardiff to see the rest of the family in two weeks, and the first thing they’re going to ask is if Agent Interpol’s remembered she’s a woman yet.”

“I really don’t see how anyone could forget.” Arthur pressed his nose deep into her hair, then withdrew to kiss the back of her neck. “Thank you for doing this, by the way. It’s only for Tristan and my grad students, but—”

“As if Tristan wouldn’t notice if his father-figure’s girlfriend refused to have him over for Thanksgiving. And when about all he knows about his father was that he had an American citizenship. Leave the honey-tongued nonsense to Lancelot, Arthur. At least I can smack him for it.” Though the tidbit of fresh-baked roll that Guinevere slipped into Arthur’s hand as he left belied her sharp words. Her frenzied cooking seemed to have regained some order as well, which in turn gave Arthur a lighter step.

* * *

While Arthur had been in the kitchen, Mariette had shown up—at the front door, thankfully—and Tristan was just letting her in when Arthur walked into the hall. Mariette gave Arthur a wave and gazed nonchalantly around the place as she slid out of her coat. “Have any of the others come yet?” she asked.

Tristan appeared to be suffering a terminal case of silent amusement, so Arthur answered. “Lancelot’s gone to pick up Guinevere’s cousin from the train station. Gawain and Galahad are in…”

“The living room. They’ve discovered Arthur’s secret collection of spaghetti westerns and think _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_ makes a good backdrop to an argument about next semester’s schedule,” Tristan supplied. He got Mariette’s coat before Arthur could, which caused Mariette to skitter back a little and eye him like anyone else would a sleeping tiger. “Guinevere’s in the kitchen.”

Whereupon Mariette offered to help her and Arthur declined in Guinevere’s name. Possibly Guinevere could have needed the aid, but whether she could accept it right now was another matter. She seemed to treat special-occasion cooking as an opportunity to combine knifework with energetic self-therapy.

“I’m sorry that I could not bring anything,” Mariette finally said. She contradicted herself by producing a winebottle-shaped package wrapped in brown paper, which she handed to Arthur. “But my parents send this with their thanks, and hope that the traveling conditions did not spoil it much.”

“Well, thank you very much. I’ll be sure to give them a call later, and in the meantime, go ahead and join the others. And there’s no need for apologies. It’s enough to have some young spirits in the house,” Arthur replied, smiling.

Mariette flushed a little, mumbled a reply and hastily backed into the other room. Tristan stared at the ceiling, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You know she used to have a crush on you?”

“No, and I didn’t really need to know that.” Arthur peeled down the wrapping enough to see how long of a phone call he’d need to make. His eyebrow rose a little and he pushed the wrapping back up. He probably should stick this one where he’d kept all the lockboxes and other info-stashes that he’d had to move in order to prepare for company; there was no way he could keep a straight face if Lancelot drank a glass of it. Not after what’d happened the last time. “Please compliment Guinevere on her cooking, by the way.”

“That won’t be too hard. It already smells better than yours, and this is only her second try at cooking one, isn’t it?” The look Tristan shot Arthur was brimming with barely-subdued mockery.

Arthur glowered at the other man, but only half-heartedly. It’d only been three weeks since Tristan and Gawain’s breach had been bridged, so Arthur was too relieved to see that Tristan seemed to be back to normal to mind much about his pride. Anyway, Guinevere was right; any sensible person would carve up the turkey first and cook the white and dark meat separately since they obviously had different optimal conditions, but for some reason, it wasn’t considered genuine roast turkey unless it was done whole.

“I believe so—” Arthur started to say, but he was interrupted by the ring of his cellphone. He frowned as he answered it, since he’d been careful to make sure that no one would have reason to call him till Friday afternoon at earliest.

It was a short, curt call. After ending it, Arthur looked up to see solemnity casting a stark chill over Tristan’s face. All the humor was gone, and in its place was a calm waiting that had iced more than one brave man’s blood.

For a moment, Arthur saw Tristan’s mother there.

Then he shook himself and looked rapidly about, debating and discarding plans of action. A pointless endeavor since his feet had already made up his mind—he reached for his coat and had it on within the minute. “Don’t let them know. Tell Guinevere when she doesn’t have a knife in her hand.”

“Are you going to need anything?” Tristan asked. He already had the front door open for Arthur.

“I need to borrow your car, but nothing else. Stay here. I’ll take care of it,” Arthur said, swinging himself down the steps.

No, he wasn’t going to take care of it. He was going to throw up some stopgap measures and then retreat for the holidays to lie wide awake through the night, feeling the cold breeze of loss prickle his skin again. And in the morning he was going to get up, and take a chance that’d bring him one step closer to tipping the delicate balance between past and present that he’d made for himself.

* * *

The train station had already resumed regular business by the time Arthur arrived there, so he didn’t bother to go looking at where it’d happened. He already knew what the modus operandi would be anyway—that was the curse of the old hand.

Pellew met him at the door. “You made it over quick. I thought the traffic would be terrifically bad.”

“It is terrifically bad.” Arthur nodded shortly to the other man. 

After a long look, Pellew pivoted to walk beside Arthur. He briefly outlined what had happened, the resulting casualties, and what he needed from Arthur, which was thankfully short and brief and could be taken care of on the spot.

“The girl’s all right. Not as shaken as you’d think, but then I suppose it runs in Guinevere’s family. From what I hear, she even got in a good swing at one of them,” Pellew said. He directed them down a hall, weaving them around Interpol and local law enforcement officers, and finally stopped them at a door. “I’m sorry to make you start off the holiday like this.”

At that, Arthur willed himself to look less stonefaced. He even managed to produce weary smile. “Oh, don’t. It’s hardly you ruining the day. I know the risks that come with the job.”

“Yes, well, you do.” Something in Pellew’s tone, rueful though it was, made Arthur look sharply at him, but Pellew had already turned away and was yards down the hall.

He probably meant nothing by it, Arthur finally decided. And even if he had, it was currently of secondary importance. It could wait till after Arthur had pushed open this door.

Doing that took him a few moments. He leaned forward, head bowed, then straightened up with a composed face. The door swung easily at his touch.

“…that good in bed? I mean, there’s two of you—oh, hello!” The girl that’d been crowding Lancelot bounced up from her seat to stick a hand out at Arthur. She was tall and dark-haired and good-looking, but there the likeness between her and Guinevere ended. Elaine looked as if she’d never had anything more intense than a triple shot of espresso in her life. “You must be Arthur.”

Lancelot sat back with his feet up on what had been Elaine’s seat, hand drifting up to adjust the bandage on his shoulder. His expression was a cross between sardonic and pained—not at Elaine’s impressively high spirits, but at the his bullet-graze, Arthur judged. “That would be Arthur. Arthur, Elaine. Elaine, Arthur. Everyone, me.”

Arthur smiled with closed lips and briskly shook Elaine’s hand with what he hoped was the appropriate mix of worry, relief and shock on his face. “It’s good to meet you, though I never expected it’d be under such circumstances. The car’s—”

_Thump_ went Lancelot’s feet on the ground. “You brought the _car_? You drove?”

“Did they give you anything?” The first instinct Arthur had was to tip up Lancelot’s chin and check the dilation of his pupils, but he suspected that that might be a little too revealing. He settled for helping Lancelot get on his coat.

“Just your standard pathetic painkillers that I’m going to toss out in favor of something that works as soon as possible,” Lancelot said, giving Arthur an odd look. Then he winced and clutched at his shoulder. “That’s going to put a crimp in my life for the next month. And I lost my cell phone, too.”

Elaine leaned against the opposite wall and laughed. “Well, according to Guinnie, you should be used to that by now.”

“Some things you just don’t get used to.” Lancelot said it with a smile, but his eyes were anything but amused.

“Like bullets, I suppose.” A shadow that Arthur thought was genuine passed over Elaine’s face. She got the door for them, then slid up on Arthur’s other side. “God. They sound a lot different from how I’d expected—not that I was planning to get shot at during my life, mind, but…well, they’re a bit more ‘poppy.’”

“That’d be the silencers. Must’ve been on their way to a job,” Lancelot said. He leaned slightly so the folds of his and Arthur’s coats brushed against each other; Arthur almost missed the first touch of Lancelot’s fingers on his wrist because of that. They pressed hard into his tendon, then curled down to wrap in Arthur’s fingers. 

Then Lancelot had to swerve to avoid being run over by a man walking the opposite way, but didn’t quite make it. He hissed and let go of Arthur to grab at his shoulder again.

“How was your trip? Aside from this end, of course,” Arthur said to Elaine. He could sense Lancelot staring at him, but made himself ignore it. Though he did let himself take Lancelot by the elbow under the pretense of guiding the other man.

“Oh, not bad. I got most of my reading done so that leaves the whole weekend free,” Elaine replied in a bright tone. She smiled up at Arthur. “I have to say, I’m quite pleased to be the first of the family to meet Guinnie’s mystery man. We’ve all been talking nonstop about you.”

Lancelot coughed. “Must make a change from wondering whether Guin and I were ever going to kill each other,” he muttered.

“I hope I haven’t disappointed.” Once they were out front, Arthur led them through the crowd and to the cab at the curb. He nodded to the driver, who’d been leaning against the door waiting for them; the man opened the door so discreetly that neither Elaine nor Lancelot noticed at first.

“Oh!” Elaine paused briefly, then shrugged and swung her bag and herself into the backseat.

Lancelot stopped on the very edge of the curb once he’d realized Arthur meant the cab and not Guinevere’s car. He started to say something, then turned around to give Arthur a disbelieving look.

Arthur gritted his teeth and pushed Lancelot into the car, deliberately pressing just enough at Lancelot’s wounded shoulder so the other man couldn’t resist. “Pellew asked me to stay back for a few moments. I’ll come after you,” he called as he shut the door.

The driver knew his business and was around to his seat before Lancelot could do more than gape open-mouthed at Arthur. A good thing, because Arthur’s lie had been a poor one and wasn’t going to last more than the time it took for the cab to pull into traffic. Lancelot wasn’t drugged and wasn’t stupid; he’d figure out that for Arthur to have the cab waiting meant he’d planned this before he’d even walked inside to meet Pellew.

Later Arthur was going to have a good deal of apologizing to do, but for the moment, he was content to let cold rage carry him to Tristan’s car. He threw it in gear, then pulled into the street in the opposite direction.

Even in New York City, there were ways to work the traffic, and even if Arthur preferred to walk, he kept himself knowledgeable about driving. He only needed a few minutes before the streets turned cracked and pitted, the buildings like smashed teeth. Tristan’s car fit in perfectly here, and for all Arthur knew, maybe it was a regular visitor. Some of the details Tristan had mentioned to Arthur had smacked of personal surveillance.

It was Thanksgiving, but the particular corner drugstore that Arthur wanted was still open. One man lay stretched out on one side of its steps, the occasional roll of his eyes the only sign that he was still alive. The man himself was the only sign of life on the streets. He didn’t look as Arthur walked past him.

Clayton glanced up from the counter, then looked up, eyes wide with shock. His hands moved, but Arthur was already across from him and yanking him forward so his palms slammed down on the counter, open and empty.

“Dear God,” Clayton finally said. “I heard rumors you’d resurfaced, but didn’t believe…so you are still around.”

“No, I’m not. I’m happily not around, and my happiness involves certain people that your current employers seem to dislike. Understandably, since your employers are considerably less than legal and the people for whom I’m concerned work for the opposite side.” Arthur stopped to adjust his grip on Clayton’s shirt, then slowly turned around to look at what apparently was one of the tilted mirrors shopkeepers used to see around aisles. “If I have to come back, I’d be deeply unhappy. _Unhappy._ ”

After a breath, Clayton nodded. Then, oddly, he smiled. It started as a jerk of his face muscles, but soon grew into a full-blown grimace. “Arthur. I know what you can do. I’ve seen it, I believe it. But you and I both know what desperation and fear and violence can do. And you know what other things, like love and all those beautiful things, can do, but I don’t. _I’m_ still around.”

First Arthur jerked Clayton forward, then he dropped him and recoiled. He put his hands on the counter and hunched over, breathing hard. Tried to clear his head. Something clicked and Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. You know I wouldn’t walk into here without a weapon unless I had good reasons behind me.”

“I’m not stupid.” When Arthur looked up, Clayton had just finished lighting his cigarette. He flicked his cigarette lighter shut with a nervous gesture. “It figures, you know. They’re the best I’ve seen—driving my employers, as you so delicately put it, up the wall. Of course they’d be yours.”

Arthur shook his head, then stepped back from the counter. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared out the door. The street was still empty except for the man on the steps.

“You can only do so much by pressuring us, the footsoldiers,” Clayton quietly said. “Sooner or later you have to choose whether you’re willing to pressure the generals.”

“And that’s the same as saying step back into the round.” After a moment, Arthur came back to the counter. He picked up the first thing his hand touched—a pack of cigarettes—and tossed it to Clayton, then pulled out enough bills to cover its price. “Why did you? You could have left.”

“Ah, yes, but I suppose some can and some just can’t.” Clayton shrugged and made change, which he pushed over. He smiled briefly at how Arthur waited for him to take his hand off it before reaching for it himself. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

The change Arthur took, the cigarettes he left on the counter. He waited for Clayton to shake one out of the pack before he turned towards the door.

“If it helps, I’ll keep this discussion between us,” Clayton suddenly said.

“If you think it’s right.” Arthur paused another second, then headed out to the car without any further delay. He automatically checked the rearview window, then did a double-take. After a moment, he let that bitter smile widen.

He took the long way home. He needed the time to think.


	2. Lumps in the Gravy

“We almost were shot coming here, so I hope your potatoes have improved, Guinnie,” caroled Elaine’s voice.

Guinevere gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to—then she whirled around and stuck her head into the hall. “ _What_?”

“Ran into a goddamn team at the station, probably on their way to kill off rival diamond fences in Brooklyn,” Lancelot snapped, brushing past her. Then he turned around and caught her elbow to drag her back into the kitchen. “One of them was Gregory; he saw me and it went downhill from there. But never mind that because Arthur’s _lost his damn mind_.”

“Where is he?” Guinevere instantly said, trying to push past Lancelot. Then she got a look at his face and shut up. She put her hand on his shoulder to shove him all the way into the kitchen, then jerked back in surprise.

Lancelot badly hid his grimace of pain. His coat was already half-off, so she pulled it the rest of the way, then ran her fingers over the bandage that swathed his shoulder. The bandages were wide but not thickly layered, and he snatched away her hand with enough force to tell her that whatever had happened to him hadn’t hit anything serious.

“Muscle nick. They didn’t even send me home in a sling. Though for all that, I might as well have gone to the hospital because Arthur just took off. He shoved us in a cab and I had to put up with your chatty little cousin all the way home, and I swear to God I’m going to—ow! Injured man, here!” He jerked his hand away from Guinevere’s spoon and sank back against the counter, pouting.

Spoon still up, Guinevere slid the tray of ginger snaps farther down the island counter. “Wounded but not dead, so no stealing cookies and no distracting me from the fact that you let Arthur go tearing off. On Thanksgiving. After I’ve cooked this _gigantic_ meal and with my cousin over and his adopted-whatever son and—”

Lancelot turned to the cabinets, opened one, and pulled out a bottle of tequila and a pair of shotglasses. It must have been his, since if Guinevere was taking something straight, she preferred to do it with whiskey, and Arthur just didn’t indulge unless they were making him. He shoved a shot at her.

Certainly was not whiskey, but in a pinch, it’d do. Guinevere coughed a little, then leaned back against the sink to rinse out the glass. “Do you know where he went?”

“No clue. Did he tell you anything? Has Tristan started pulling maps yet?” After taking a shot himself, Lancelot looked seriously at her. “Can we go rope him in and drag him home now?”

“You’re a British twat and you do a horrible cowboy impression and we have guests,” Guinevere snapped. She glanced around the kitchen: the turkey was done, the cranberry compote could come out of the fridge now, the vegetables simmering on the stove were giving off a wonderful smell. “I didn’t even know he’d left. Damn it, Tristan had better compliment that turkey or I’ll stuff the wishbone up his secretive arse. He had to have known.”

“I’d hope so. Your car’s still in the garage, so unless Arthur’s taken his walking mania to new heights, he’s in Tristan’s car.” The tequila bottle seemed to fascinate Lancelot for several seconds. He curved his hand around to slide a nail beneath one corner of the label, then shook himself and shoved the bottle back into the cabinet.

Guinevere put her hands up to her face and pressed hard at her eyes. She took a deep breath and made herself think. In the other room, she could hear Elaine’s voice occasionally soaring over the deeper rumbles of Gawain and Galahad. Her cousin seemed to have recovered damn quick, but to give Elaine her due, she’d lived four years in Belfast when she was a teenager.

“Christmas comes round, Arthur is cooking because then we can make sure he stays put,” she finally said. Some searching around turned up the spatula and Guinevere used it to scoop the potatoes into a more decorative bowl. “All right, go out there and be witty and entertaining. And send in Tristan to help me carry all this out to the table.”

“Wait, why don’t I stay in here and you go out? We’re both men, so I’d probably have a better chance at getting him to open up.” Lancelot straightened up and pulled at his shirt, doing up the buttons. He started to fiddle with his tie, then muttered beneath his breath and irritably flipped it away. And then he cursed loudly and distinctly as he reached for his shoulder.

She nodded towards it. “Because of that, and because you just had to get shot on Thanksgiving. Now get out of here so I can panic in private.”

“It wasn’t like I was trying for it! And—oh, fine, curse in Welsh. It’s not like I can’t still figure out what you’re saying from your tone. Also, I’m changing into a nonbloody shirt first.” The way Lancelot stomped off had about all the grace of an injured bull. To which, frankly, he bore more than a passing resemblance.

Guinevere turned around and picked up the first dish. She put it back down. Then she picked it back up. Then she put it back down and put her head down while she was at it. A moment later she was vaguely grateful for the fact that she’d chosen one with a lid, since that meant she wasn’t smushing her hair into the food. After everything that she’d done with it, she didn’t need to seal the deal by getting that close.

Oh, damn him.

Feet clicked across tile and Guinevere jerked up, then hastily ran her fingers through her hair. A few seconds later, Tristan wandered into the room. He wasn’t making any noise; Guinevere spent a moment admiring how tactful that had been and then another one thinking about how much that reminded her of Arthur. She picked up the dish so hard that she nearly chipped it on the edge of the counter. “Grab that one there,” she said, pointing with her chin.

Tristan obligingly did. He set it down where she wanted it to go without her having to tell him, then went back into the kitchen for the next one.

“You know, I specifically asked Arthur whether he knew any of these smugglers. Especially the one that seems to be point man—Benedict Clayton.” Guinevere lifted the lid and couldn’t help but inhale as clouds of fragrant steam came wafting up at her. She put the lid down, then put it down again—the first time, her hand had been shaking a little too much. “He said he’d heard of the man. No, he said he ‘knew of’ him.”

“That’s probably the best way to put it.” A golden-brown turkey, which looked just as damned good as any magazine cover, was plunked down in front of Guinevere. Then Tristan leaned back against one of the chairs, absently licking his finger. “It’s hard to say you know a man after something like ten years.”

She slapped her hands down on the table. “Are you defending him?”

Tristan’s eyebrow went up. “Are you attacking him?”

“Yes. No. This wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t so—so—oh, my God.” Guinevere yanked out a chair with her foot and dropped hard into it. The thump hurt her hipbones, but she couldn’t even muster up the energy to hiss. “Tell me he’s not being an idiot right now.”

Silence from Tristan’s corner. After a moment, his feet walked around her and back into the kitchen. He quietly set the remaining dishes on the table.

“I’m going to kill him,” Guinevere muttered. “Kill him and keep him and why is this so complicated? Goddamn it, say something. Don’t just stand there.”

“Arthur’s being a man that can’t not care,” Tristan said. He poked at the centerpiece a few times, nudging some of the flowers back into position. “He’ll be back. It’s impolite for the host to be absent.”

The laugh cracked its way out of Guinevere’s chest. It rattled around in her mouth for a few seconds before it finally made it all the way into the open. She slid her hand over her lips afterward and pressed hard, then swiped her fingers over her eyes. A damp streak of eyeshadow came off on her fingers and she rubbed at it. “He’d better be back for a better reason than that.”

She thought her voice was steadier that time. Tristan certainly looked a little less blank, so he must have thought she was calming down, too. “I’m sure he is, but I honestly don’t want to know that much about Arthur’s and your’s private lives,” he said. “Bring in the rest in five minutes?”

“Seven. I need to go repowder my face.” Guinevere slowly pushed herself up from the table. She stopped to take a good look at the table and smiled a little; it was nice to know that had gone well, at least. “Tristan?”

“I have no idea where he is. If I started making calls, I might be able to find out where he’s _been_ , but he’s moving too fast.” There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Tristan’s voice. He didn’t stick in any kind of modifying probability. He just knew, and Guinevere believed he knew correctly.

The smile on Guinevere’s face got its knobs twisted so her skin felt too tight. She wrapped her arms around herself, then dropped them and headed for the bathroom. “Thanks.”

At least no one could throw up anything worse. Who cared about family dramatics at a time like this?

* * *

“…and then he drank it! My God, you should’ve seen the guy’s face when we finally got somebody that knew enough French to tell him what was really in it,” Elaine giggled, stabbing at her turkey. She kept on laughing so her hair fell charmingly in front of her face.

Mariette appeared to be contemplating the many ways in which a butter knife could be creatively employed, while beside her, Galahad was desperately trying to swallow his laughter. Judging by the way that end of the table was moving, Gawain was helping along that process with multiple kicks to the shin.

Elaine’s charm was lost on Lancelot as well, whose eyes were rolling more than the cranberries in his spoon. “I swear, I’m going to kill Arthur just for skipping out on _yet_ another uncomfortable but socially crucial dinner,” he muttered. “Tristan, some more greens?”

“Thank you.” Tristan took the bowl, flicked out a clump and passed it across the table to Elaine. “Did you have any yet?”

“No, but thanks! Guinnie’s greens are one of her best dishes. They always made up for what she did to the meat.” When she took the bowl, Elaine smiled with eyelashes fluttering at full speed. Gawain stopped kicking Galahad and started paying more attention to the rest of the table.

Guinevere would be lucky if she didn’t bite her own teeth in half before the night was over. Between the nickname and Elaine’s playacting at being a stupid bimbo, it would have been a trying enough dinner to necessitate restocking the aspirin, but with Arthur out running around to do God knew what, Guinevere’s blood pressure was soaring to interesting new levels.

“The turkey is very good,” Tristan said.

“Oh, I agree. Much better—not bloody or black this time.” Elaine vigorously nodded. She forked up a generous helping into her mouth, then made exaggerated noises of delight while beaming at Guinevere. Her eyes were dancing in a very different way. “Wonderful stuff, cousin. Your mother’s going to be thrilled to hear about it.”

Smiling was an effort. It was a good thing the table was very thick so Guinevere had plenty of wood in which to sink her fingernails. “It’s very considerate of you to volunteer to inform her.”

“How long have you been in America?” Mariette called over. She was cutting her turkey into precise diamonds before she dipped them in the gravy and finally popped the pieces in her mouth. Her eyes were narrow, cold, and on Elaine instead of her plate.

“About three years. I came over for my law degree. Mariette, could you pass down the butter?” Clearly Elaine didn’t think much of Mariette, because she was smiling at Tristan again. Tristan was concentrating on deboning his turkey wing, using a little more flourish with the knife than was strictly necessary. If he thought that’d put off Elaine, he was dead wrong; she only grinned wider.

Mariette handed the butter boat to Galahad, then cocked her head. “You would be almost done, then? Law school is about three years, yes?”

Oh, good guess _and_ nice shot. Guinevere silently applauded how quick the other woman was. Maybe Elaine was blood, but she could stand to blush a little.

“I’m taking a fourth year,” Elaine admitted. Her smile was still bright, but its wattage had noticeably diminished. “My advisor just put together this new clinic class on immigration law and I didn’t want to miss an opportunity like that.”

“Of course not. I would like to remain at Avalon as long as possible to take advantage of all the opportunities, but money, money, money. You must be very fortunate if you can afford a fourth year—you have a scholarship?” Honey and cyanide had nothing on Mariette’s tone. Even Galahad had noticed.

Elaine flushed and clanked her knife around in the butterboat. “Not exactly. I did, but it was discontinued.”

Lancelot coughed. He didn’t look like he wanted to all that much, but occasionally he’d bite down and do the sensible thing. “So Gawain, Arthur says that you aren’t teaching next semester. Relieved?”

“Man, yeah. I mean, not that I hate being a GSI…okay, okay, I did and you can stop looking at me like that, Galahad,” Gawain said, hastily sitting up. He looked more relieved that Elaine and Mariette hadn’t ended up strangling each other, to tell the truth.

Galahad looked disappointed, but then, he was straight and probably had been fantasizing about a female-wrestling scenario. Guinevere was disappointed as well, but she supposed it wouldn’t work out too well if she sent a humiliated Elaine back to Wales. Or if she let Mariette murder her cousin in Arthur’s house.

God damn Arthur, but where was he? If he didn’t show up soon, Guinevere might forget about why she cared so much that his house stayed clean. That his _life_ stayed clean.

“Speaking of Arthur, where is he?” Galahad asked.

Tristan promptly gave him a hard stare, but it didn’t penetrate far enough. Galahad kept looking at Guinevere and Lancelot so they couldn’t look at each other and try to settle on some kind of story.

“Oh, they kept him back at the train station,” Elaine said. She gazed thoughtfully at her glass. “But it’s been a long time. And isn’t it funny that they’d keep him and not Lancelot or me? I mean, I was there getting shot at too. Or does he work for Interpol? Oh, I know! He’s a secretly a secret agent, isn’t he?”

Everyone except Galahad and Mariette coughed uncomfortably. Mariette just looked confused while Galahad snorted. He slouched in his seat and absently twirled his spoon. “Are you kidding me? Arthur’s a college professor. He gets twitchy if his Powerpoint slides are out of order. He’d be a terrible spy.”

“I think he’d look good as one,” Elaine retorted, but only half-heartedly.

Gawain looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to bang his head hard on the table or to give Galahad a clap on the shoulder for such great acting. Tristan just looked as if he wanted to bang somebody’s head.

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” Lancelot finally said. “Arthur probably just is stuck in traffic; he doesn’t drive that much to begin with, and we’re in the middle of holiday rush hour. Now, would anyone feel guilty if we brought out dessert? I’m of the opinion that Arthur is a compassionate, kind man and wouldn’t want us to suffer in his absence.”

If Tristan asked, Guinevere could now give him a suggestion as to whose head he should be banging. Honestly. Goddamn it, Arthur needed to get home.

“I don’t mind, but I’ve just got to skip out a moment. Guinnie, where’s the loo?” Elaine asked.

Mariette stood up before Guinevere could answer, a sweet smile on her face. “I can show you. I need to go as well.”

Blinking, Elaine rapidly searched for an excuse to decline and equally rapidly, failed to come up with one. “Oh…thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Mariette breezily said. “This way!”

* * *

Head down, Galahad mumbled through the flesh of his arm. “Is anyone screaming? Is blood dripping through the ceiling? Has my girlfriend turned into a murderer yet?”

“No,” Tristan said.

“Girlfriend?” Gawain said.

Galahad lifted his head. “Slip of the tongue. She’s not my girlfriend. She will _kill_ if that word is mentioned. So will I, come to think of it.”

“So was that a Freudian slip, or just a stupid one?” Gawain asked. He held up his hands when Galahad turned to glare at him. “Kidding. Nice save on the Arthur question. And while we’re on the topic—where is he, anyway?”

The second question was addressed in the general direction of Tristan, Lancelot and Guinevere; Gawain’s eyes couldn’t seem to decide on whom to settle. Tristan conveniently had his mouth full of turkey and couldn’t answer. Lancelot tried to brazen it out. “Like I said, probably traffic.”

“Right. And begging your pardon, but you two wouldn’t look a little nervous over traffic. And you—” Gawain twisted to his right to look at Tristan. He didn’t say anything, just stared. Tristan stared back. They had what came off as a weird staring conversation.

Galahad rolled his eyes and put his head back down. “Stop that. That’s fucking creepy—it’s always fucking creepy. And don’t tell me I’ll get used to it. It’s been a week and I can already tell you, I ain’t getting used to it.”

“Let’s go get the mousse,” Tristan finally said, getting up. He and Gawain quickly retreated to the kitchen, and after a moment, Galahad wandered after them.

As soon as they were gone, Lancelot turned to Guinevere. “So? What’d Tristan have to say?”

“Not much, and vague as usual. If I understood him right, Arthur at least knows who Clayton is. Or did know him—Tristan said something about you can’t say you know someone if you haven’t seen them in ten years.” Guinevere picked up her wineglass, then put it down. It was good wine, but in her current mood, she didn’t think it was worth it if she couldn’t reach catatonic after one glass.

“Didn’t you ask him if he knew Clayton?” Lancelot sat up and pushed into Guinevere’s space, as if it was her fault Arthur was a better liar than either of them had thought.

She didn’t give an inch. “I did, and he said he didn’t, and I’m going to burn his arse for this.” Guinevere put her head in her hands, then lifted her head again. “You know, it’s less that he went off again without even leaving a voicemail. It’s that he looked at me and lied.”

“If you go by Tristan’s theory, Arthur merely told a half-truth,” Lancelot said. Then he rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just mentioning it, I didn’t say I believed it. You weren’t the only one that got that—I’ve been complaining to Arthur for months about this case and he hasn’t said a word. And we could’ve used the—the—damn it.”

“Exactly. We said we were fine with him telling us on a need-to-know basis, as long as he didn’t use it as an excuse to stonewall forever. But this should be different. This _is_ different. This is…oh, hi, girls. I see you found the bathroom without too much trouble,” Guinevere said, spotting Mariette and Elaine. She forced herself to look mildly welcoming.

A split second later, Gawain came out with the mousse. His nervousness about letting them see it and subsequent disbelief at all the compliments he received kept everyone distracted so Guinevere could sneak off to the kitchen. She figured she could get some of the dishes soaking while she tried to sort things out in her head.

“I’m sure you had your reasons, Arthur, but the fact is that we are professionals and we do sign a wavier when Interpol issues us our guns. If you don’t want to discuss something, you can say that you don’t want to talk about it,” she muttered, scrubbing at the counter. The flour she’d spilled while thickening up the gravy had mixed with the juices of something to form a gooey, persistent paste that resisted her rag. She scrubbed harder. “You don’t have to lie to us. That—that shows a profound disrespect, because obviously you don’t think we can handle it maturely. And it shows a lack of trust and a hell of a lot of…”

“Stupidity?”

“…stupidity. Exactly.” Guinevere rubbed for another few seconds, then jerked around so hard she nearly fell off her heels. She grabbed for the counter. “Arthur! Christ!”

He was leaning against the frame of the back door, hands in his coat-pockets. He looked as if he’d just spent the night walking through an AIDS hospice in Africa. “Did I miss most of dinner?”

“You—you—” A second later, Guinevere fell back against the counter. She flapped her stinging hand a couple times. “You have one hell of a cheekbone,” she said.

Arthur hadn’t so much as winced, but now he slowly lifted a hand to his cheek and rubbed at it. “I deserved that.”

“You—you—” What, exactly, was it about this man that could reduce Guinevere to stuttering? The day she found out was the day she got rid of it.

Except she didn’t mean that. Guinevere wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against the counter. “Clayton.”

“I’m always going to wonder now whether I could’ve kept Lancelot from being shot if I’d mentioned more beforehand,” Arthur said. He shifted his shoulder, then turned to slide his arm fully out of his coat. He paused, then finished taking off his coat. “Clayton’s from one of the worse episodes in my life. I haven’t seen him in years—I didn’t even bother to keep track of him. I didn’t want to know where he was because it’d only remind me.”

“I hope you don’t think this excuses what you did, and I don’t only mean the lying. The running off—Arthur, what the hell were you doing? You think it’ll make us any happier if you get hurt or killed while on some idiotic quest to—to avenge us? Lancelot’s not even in a sling! He’s not getting any sick days for this!” Guinevere snapped, stalking forward. She grabbed his shirt and did her best to shake him, though his height and weight worked hard against her. “You could have called!”

Then she kissed him. Hard. When they came up for air, she could feel the imprint of his teeth in her lips. She’d meant to yell at him some more, but the words wouldn’t come and her hands were yanking him back anyway. Her hand slid into his hair and squeezed, rubbing the coarse hairs between her fingers. His hands curved to her waist and pulled upward, then pressed over her back as if they were saying goodbye forever.

They damned well weren’t. She dug in her nails till he walked her backwards and the counter bumped her spine. She groaned and slung her arm over his neck, wiggling because there wasn’t enough room to hop up on the counter.

Someone knocked. “You’re missing dessert,” Tristan said.

“Oh.” Arthur twisted around to nod at Tristan, then pressed his face into the curve of Guinevere’s neck. “I didn’t miss everything.”

“No. You are _not_ off the hook. In fact—come on. You’re suffering a little of my cousin, damn it. God, I was worried.” Guinevere slowed in her dragging of them towards the door. “I was worried,” she repeated.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. After a moment, he leaned in and this time, she turned away. He sucked in his breath and kissed her on the temple instead.

Goddamn it. God—Guinevere loosened her grip on his wrist so she could twine together their hands. “I’m still incredibly furious at you. It’s so damned hard to love you sometimes.”

“I know—” Arthur stopped and looked sharply at her.

She yanked hard on his arm before he could comment. God, she hoped her eyeshadow was holding up; not much else was. “Guess who showed up, everyone?”


	3. Leftovers

The same moment Guinevere walked in to make her announcement, somebody whacked Lancelot hard on the elbow. The jolt shot up his arm and jarred his shoulder so when he looked up, he was gritting his teeth and feeling irritation flush heat into his face.

In retrospect, that was a good thing because that nicely covered up his moment of shock. He coughed, then put down his glass and stood up. “About time. Traffic’s that bad?”

Arthur immediately caught on and ducked his head, looking embarrassed for the rest of the room. “It’s picked up quite a bit.”

“At least you’re here. Try the pumpkin mousse. It’s better than Maman’s dark chocolate recipe,” Mariette said, holding out a bowl. She giggled like a little girl when Arthur nodded his approval after a taste.

“Very good, Gawain,” Arthur said. Between the bowl he was holding and the death-grip Guinevere had on his other hand, he took a few minutes to make his way into a chair. He glanced at Lancelot as he did, eyes promising a long talk.

It’d damned well better be, and Arthur had better not think he could put off Lancelot the way he obviously had Guinevere, to which her smeared lipstick and too-bright eyes attested. Speaking of which, Lancelot looked rather idiotic himself standing up, so he sat back down.

“Thanks,” Gawain said.

“Want another serving?” Tristan said.

Lancelot covered his bowl with his hand and shook his head. “I’ll thank you not to give me any more hard cues, either.”

The other man shrugged and passed his own bowl to Gawain for another helping. His hair fell into his face, but it didn’t obscure his expression enough for Lancelot to not be able to tell Tristan found it all pretty funny. Well, he could. He had that strange unwavering faith in Arthur—or maybe he just had a more accurate psych profile of the man.

“I thought I’d spare you Elaine asking if you were going to pass out,” Tristan said. He took his bowl back from Gawain, who had accidentally gotten himself trapped in an argument between Elaine and Mariette over whether some French movie star had gotten work done or not. “Arthur?”

“Thanks,” Arthur said, sliding over something. Just before Tristan’s hand whisked it off the table, Lancelot glimpsed a keyring. So it had been Tristan’s car. “Was everything all right here?”

Lancelot poked at the remains of his roll, pushing them around so the white parts were on the outside and the browner bits inside. He thought about kicking Arthur a few times, but decided against it because one, that was childish and he was better than that no matter what Guinevere said, and two, at this angle he’d probably hit Guin as well. “Oh, fine. Except for the part where we were wondering where you were.”

Arthur winced. He hid it pretty well from the general audience by spooning up mousse at the same time, but Lancelot hadn’t qualified as general audience for at least a few months. Damn the man, he could have at least asked Lancelot to get into the cab. Not that Lancelot would have, but he would have appreciated the gesture.

“You didn’t get a new morgue report landing on my desk Monday morning, did you?” Guin added. She still hadn’t let go of Arthur’s hand or noticed that her lipstick was a bit of a mess.

Though Arthur had. He tried to subtly signal to her, but she was a little too upset to understand why on earth he’d be flicking his fingers over his cheek. Finally, he glanced at the rest of the table—busy talking—then leaned over and quickly swiped it off with his thumb.

“Oh, like I care right now. It’ll get a lot more smeary if I end up working this weekend after all.” She irritably batted away his hand. “Arthur?”

“No. But there’s some things you two should look at, after I’ve retrieved them,” he said. He started to dip his spoon into his mousse, then looked up as half a roasted chestnut went skittering by his bowl.

Elaine blinked innocently. “Oh, sorry about that. And what are you three up to down there? You look so serious—I thought the important conversation stopped after the turkey was carved.”

“Perhaps that’s only when no one can think of any more,” Mariette butted in, sharp edge of her smile pointing right at Elaine. “My family can debate for hours and hours. We never run out of interesting things to say.”

Well, that wallflower certainly had bloomed beneath the sting of competition. Or, Lancelot suddenly speculated, thanks to the lubrication of one too many bottles of wine. He flicked his eyes to the bottle in the center of the table and met Galahad’s stare; Galahad rolled his eyes and quietly stole Mariette’s glass.

“She’s only had two,” Tristan murmured.

“Remember her mother? Down after one.” Arthur cleared his throat, then spoke more loudly. “A little variety never hurt anyone. I suppose I’m still at the office, working. Bad habit of mine.”

Lancelot resisted the urge to snort. “Well, you’re definitely home now.”

Elaine shot him an interested look and too late Lancelot remembered that while annoying-to-the-point-of-homicide ran in Guinevere’s family, stupidity didn’t. But Elaine’s question went to Arthur instead. “So what do you do, Arthur? Guinnie’s just said you’re a professor of philosophy at Avalon College. Is that a full or associate?”

“Full,” Arthur replied, voice pleasant enough. He didn’t show any signs of wanting to strangle Elaine for the attempted jab, unlike Guinevere who had to look at Arthur’s shoulder to keep Elaine from seeing her grinding teeth. “I hold the Monmouth Chair, which is an interesting position because it specifies that the holder remain largely independent of the department hierarchy.”

“So you’re like the in-house rebel. Does that actually work? I mean, you still are part of the Establishment,” Elaine asked. All with a very nice, toothy smile.

For the past three years, Lancelot had had to put up with Elaine’s little tricks at Thanksgiving. It should have been a bit of a relief to not be the target for once, but somehow he wasn’t feeling that and he wasn’t sure whether it was because Elaine definitely didn’t have the higher ground from which to judge Arthur, or because he wanted to be the one needling Arthur. Well, actually he wanted to drag Arthur into a corner and ask him where his goddamned mind had been for the past few hours.

“Were you planning on being a…a…what is the expression—Lone Ranger? I admit to knowing little of law, but I thought Establishment meant all organized groups.” Mariette smiled around her spoon at a visibly discomfited Elaine. She was starting to sway, but occasionally she’d jerk to a stop.

No, that was Galahad pulling on her elbow and looking thoroughly embarrassed about it. Lancelot raised his glass to the other man, then coughed when he noticed that everyone else had tentatively followed his lead. “Oh. Well, I thought it was about time for the toasts. To…to the opportunity to have such a gathering. Because as chancy as life is, the rest of the year we’re never guaranteed to all be together.”

And if Arthur had been a little stupider, they wouldn’t even have had this one, Lancelot sourly thought. He flicked his eyes over to Arthur as he raised his glass a little higher, then downed it. The wine was fine in his mouth, but managed to turn into vinegar by the time it hit his stomach. He didn’t look back up at Arthur after he’d drank. It made it easier to stay mad at the man.

Guinevere kicked him beneath the table and Lancelot shot up, banging his shoulder against his chair back. He flinched and glowered at her, but she didn’t look the least bit apologetic.

“Um, well, to the great cooking. I haven’t had a dinner this good in a while,” Gawain nervously said. He winced almost as soon as he was done, glancing at Tristan. “Oops. Sorry, skipped you.”

“Not really. That was my toast, more or less.” Tristan calmly put up his glass, then downed the one swallow that remained in it. “Except I also need to apologize because I have to go now. It’s time to feed Iseult.”

Arthur immediately stood up and got out of his chair, though he didn’t get any farther than moving around behind it. Guinevere had finally let go of his hand, but her gaze could’ve doubled as a tractor-beam straight out of _Star Wars_. And if it hadn’t, Lancelot wasn’t too bad at the one-handed grab. “Oh, no, that’s fine. Would you want to…er, do we have any leftovers?”

“Not really. I guess that’s Gawain and me too, and hey, Mariette. Did you bring your car?” Galahad said. He’d shoved his hands in his pockets and if he hadn’t mentioned Mariette’s name, everyone would have assumed that he was talking to the hallway. It was an interesting way to have a conversation.

“Hmmm? Oh, no, non, Kitty’s son dropped me off. My car broke down again…oh! My heel’s broken, too…” Mariette dipped forward so suddenly that everyone jumped up, thinking she was going to break her neck on the floor.

Luckily for her, Galahad was a quick catcher even if doing that just made his complexion redder. He appeared to be having a hard time biting back a different tone of voice. “So we’ll, uh, take her home. I guess.”

“All right,” Tristan placidly said. He nodded separately to Guinevere and Lancelot, and gave Arthur a long look. “Thanks for dinner, Guinevere.”

“I suppose I should be going as well—oh, wow. It has been a while. If I can get a cab right now, I should get to the station in time.” Elaine leaned over and gave Guin a peck on the cheek, which startled the hell out of Guin. “It was a good dinner, Guinnie. Thanks.”

Which was Lancelot’s cue to drag Arthur back into the kitchen. “Go ahead and get her set up, Guin,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll take care of clean-up.”

* * *

In point of fact, the kitchen was damned near spotless. There were a few splatters on the stove and some dishes piled up in the sink, but otherwise it was clean enough to keep even Arthur from finding fault in it.

“Guin really must have been cracking up,” Lancelot muttered. “Of course, I can’t actually blame her this time. Have you gone completely round the bend?”

Since no cleaning was necessary, Lancelot stalked on through the kitchen and into the back hall. A century ago this area had been part of the servants’ quarters and it still showed in the cramped and dark space, which suited Lancelot’s mood. He swerved around the corner, then turned back to push at Arthur’s shoulders.

“Haven’t we had this argument? You said—you said you were going to try and work with us. You were going to _talk_ , or at least nod your head or shake it or something, anything. But no, you lied.” He smacked the heel of his hand into Arthur’s shoulder, sending the other man back a few inches. Then he curled his fingers into Arthur’s shirt and dragged him back. “No, never mind that. I can—I can actually justify that in my head in your favor.”

Arthur’s fingers brushed over Lancelot’s cheek; Lancelot shook them off twice, but they kept coming back. Damned stubborn man. Damned man that could snap Lancelot’s knees out from under him just by touching his temple. Lancelot tried to grab Arthur’s shirt in both hands, but that pulled too much at his stitches and he ended up having to just hang on with the one hand. He folded his other arm between them to get some space, but of course that didn’t do any good because he still pressed his face into Arthur’s chest.

“Honestly, what really got to me? You just—running off. Goddamn it, Arthur, I am an Interpol agent and your friend or acquaintance or whatever is part of _my case_. Professional courtesy alone should’ve said talk to me or Guin first, not—not—” This little speech wasn’t coming out of Lancelot’s mouth the way it’d sounded in his head. And for once he’d actually planned it out, working and reworking it so the moment Arthur showed up, Lancelot could lay it on him. “You _idiot_. Did you kill him?”

The fingers gently playing over the side of Lancelot’s face pressed down so they were cupping his chin. They tilted it up so he had to look at Arthur, whose face was darker than the shadows barring it.

Lancelot’s chest went cold. He’d seen Arthur kill before, but that’d been in self-defense. There’d been someone else and they’d shot first. It was different if Arthur had been the first one to pull the trigger. Different if he’d sought out the other person—sickly flattering to Lancelot, but he was feeling the sickness more than the flattery. “Did you?”

“No,” Arthur finally said. He pulled Lancelot’s head back up when Lancelot began to slump in relief. “No. And I wasn’t going to, which sounds worse than it is. I hadn’t been keeping tabs on Clayton, but after Guinevere mentioned him, I started digging up information. It’s old, not pertinent to your case. But it’d be enough to raise some deadly ghosts from his past. That sort of thing…it’s very easy to have done for men like him and me.”

“So you’ve been planning this?” The rank stupidity of that question smacked Lancelot in the face as soon as he’d voiced it. Of course Arthur hadn’t. Going off to terrify someone on Thanksgiving was the stuff of mob movies, not of real-life struggles between law and justice, past and present.

Arthur ran his thumb just under Lancelot’s lower lip. “In a way. Clayton was a good agent—good in morals as well as skills. But he’s drifted, or some such thing, in the past few years, and what little I know of his present employers tells me to be wary of them as well. I wanted to be ready, just in case.”

“So you were prepared to get someone else to kill him. Is that it? Jesus Christ, Arthur.” Lancelot jerked his head free of Arthur’s hand, then laid it back on Arthur’s shoulder. “Clayton’s crucial to cracking the smuggling ring. If he cooperates, then we have all of them…and damn you, we told you this. I told you I wanted him for a _trial_. For the justice system that I thought you believed in as well, and all this time you’ve been plotting like some tinpot druglord? What were—”

“I was going to let you have him for your case, if all went well,” Arthur interrupted. He wrapped his hand around the back of Lancelot’s neck, pulling them in so his earnest whisper could fall directly into Lancelot’s ear. “You have to believe me on that. I was. But what I wanted to be prepared for—what Clayton and I were trained to do—what we did do, and why I didn’t ever want to think about him again—I was terrified. I like to think the courts work, I want to do all I can to make them work, but if he went after you and was successful…they’d take too long.”

Goddamn it. The fragments didn’t make sense at first, and then they did. They made the kind of sense that pulled at Lancelot’s gut even though he should’ve known better. He gritted his teeth so he almost chewed a hole in Arthur’s shirt, then made himself relax. Willed his muscles to relax, for all that tension to drain away. Except he really ended up just pushing it into a tiny space till it finally recoiled. He stumbled backward, then caught himself against the wall while Arthur reeled back a pace. The other man touched his shoulder where Lancelot had punched it, then winced.

“That’s an idiotic line of reasoning. Everyone I try to put in jail probably wishes they could kill me,” Lancelot said raggedly. His head hurt. His shoulder hurt. He was actually beginning to wish he’d volunteered to work the holiday shift.

“But I know Clayton could do it. I’ve helped him do it. It’s…it is idiotic, but if anyone else hurts you, it’s someone else hurting you. If he or someone I once knew as well as him hurts you, it’s like I did it myself. Because there’s not that much difference—I was him and I’m afraid I still am him in many ways.” Arthur took a tentative step forward, then another one. The first time he laid his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, Lancelot shook him off.

The second time, Lancelot let him undo the shirtbuttons and peel back the fabric to poke at the bandages. He caught Arthur’s hand and pulled the other man forward. “You’re not. You know where your idiocy mainly comes from? From making bad analogies like that.”

Arthur snorted a little, strained laugh coming out. He leaned forward, tip of his nose grazing Lancelot’s cheek. Then he tipped his head the rest of the way and kissed Lancelot. Soft going hard, and his hand dropped inside Lancelot’s half-buttoned shirt to run over Lancelot’s chest and stomach. Nails curved around the edge of Lancelot’s waistband, and then they slid down just as Lancelot finally threw his arm over Arthur’s neck and just hauled the other man in. Little hard things occasionally popped out from between them.

“Second damned shirt I’ve ruined today,” Lancelot muttered, wriggling so Arthur could push said shirt out of the way. He backed up against the wall as Arthur closed him in, body a second wall that was very welcome to trap him. And after all that the man put him through…

But it was too much to lose: the hot mouth stroking the length of his neck, the hand squeezing down his trousers. He knew what Arthur meant about the legal way taking too long, when it came to some things. Maybe that made him a worse agent than he should have been, but Lancelot just couldn’t bring himself to care at moments like these. His trousers sliding down his legs, Arthur’s hand on his prick, his hands clutching slick sweat into Arthur’s shirt.

He worked his hand loose so he could slide into Arthur’s hair, pull them back together for a long kiss. Arthur breathed hard into it, as if he were bringing Lancelot to life; his hand pressed Lancelot’s prick against their thighs, grinding it between skin and rough cotton.

“…she said it might be in the sink,” someone’s voice said. Kitchen. Gawain. Damn it. Wasn’t a bad sort, but could he leave finally so there’d be no more interruptions or nonsense about being polite in front of company?

Lancelot would have called out, but Arthur was still kissing him, and harder now. He needed to breathe and pushed at Arthur only to have his hand pinned back. His other hand was tangled up in Arthur’s shirt, and anyway, his bad shoulder kept it from coming too far. He tried to make an annoyed noise, but only managed to get himself kissed so soundly that he lost his own sound.

“…she might have put it in the cabinet…” Tristan. “She looked nervous, and if she’s anything like Arthur, she organizes when she’s under stress.”

Finally Arthur was lifting away from Lancelot, and Lancelot would have laughed then if Arthur’s eyes, full of eerie glitter, hadn’t mesmerized him. They said _quiet_ and _now_ and _don’t argue_ in tones that made the finger Arthur laid across Lancelot’s lips superfluous. Though perhaps not, because then Arthur dropped silently to his knees and took Lancelot’s prick into his mouth. Lancelot shoved his wrist into his mouth.

Clanking dishware. “Um, don’t see it here, either. Is she still here? Can you ask…”

“She left to drive Elaine to the station,” Tristan said. “Wait a moment. We spooned it out into the prettier bowl because we thought it’d calm Guinevere down, or at least keep that from raising her blood pressure. Then we…put your dish back in the fridge.”

God. It wasn’t quite the right season, but Arthur’s mouth could make angels descend from heaven. Then again, that perfect pressure stroking the length of Lancelot’s prick was…thinking about it that way was blasphemous anyway, so the season didn’t matter. Or something like that. Lancelot clawed for a grip on Arthur’s hair and tried to keep his knees locked. He nearly rattled the wall as a hard press of Arthur’s tongue against the head of his prick proved his undoing. Well, no, he couldn’t, not yet, he had to—

_Bang_ went the fridge door, and at the same moment Lancelot bucked into the wall, bruised up his hips, elbows and the back of his head. Came like someone was going to shoot him if he didn’t. His right knee came unlocked and he nearly fell on his arse, but Arthur grabbed his thighs at the last minute.

“Oh, there it is. In the back,” Gawain said.

He clinked and rustled around the fridge’s other contents to get at it, which nicely covered up for Arthur easing Lancelot to the ground. Lancelot still had his arms raised for some idiotic reason, wrists dragging along the wall like they were on railroad tracks. He belatedly lifted them away, but couldn’t quite get them to Arthur’s shoulders. In the end he let them drop. Winced at the way that pulled at his stitches.

Arthur marked that and crawled over Lancelot to nuzzle around the edges of the bandages. The tape holding them down was beginning to peel off because Lancelot’s sweat was dissolving its glue, and Arthur wasn’t helping with how he was easing his tongue-tip around the raw patches where the tape had been stuck. Lancelot raised one arm to weakly poke at the other man and got his wrists captured.

“Got it. Okay, now we can go. God, I hope Mariette hasn’t thrown up. She was looking a little green when we left. How much wine did she have?”

“Two glasses. I think Galahad can manage her.” Someone closed the fridge door. “He’d better. He’ll be cleaning my car if he doesn’t,” Tristan said. He paused, as if Gawain had said something. “There’s worse. He could be cleaning Arthur’s carpets. Come on.”

Their footsteps had barely faded before Lancelot had to let his head fall back and just moan. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Damn it, I _hate_ how Tristan does that. Didn’t you teach him any manners—oh, God.”

Arthur had winced a bit when Tristan had spoken, but had quickly gone back to gently mouthing along Lancelot’s neck. He wouldn’t let go of Lancelot’s hands.

“You know, we weren’t done talking,” Lancelot muttered. He arched involuntarily when Arthur’s tongue needled into his ear. “I’m still sitting you down and making you tell me about Clayton. And you don’t get a choice about how much to tell this time—I think Guin and I deserve the whole story for what you put us through this after…that’s a bit distracting.”

The distraction stopped. “I know, and I will. I handled this one badly,” Arthur said.

“Well, that’s better.” After a moment, Lancelot tilted his head. “I didn’t say you had to _stop_. I just said it was distracting.”

For a moment, Arthur stared disbelievingly at him. Then the other man sighed and pulled Lancelot down so he could bury his face in Lancelot’s neck. He was smiling a little bit, which was even better. It was a funny thing, but at the end of the day, Lancelot wanted Arthur happy more than anything else, like having his pride satisfied or being right and being alone.

* * *

Guinevere stretched lazily so the sheets slipped down to reveal her breasts, nipples still a bit moist and swollen from Arthur’s attentions; Arthur was still in the shower. She smacked half-heartedly at Lancelot when he leaned over to push his head against them, then rolled over so he had somewhere to lie down. “At least the other moron in this house apologizes nicely.”

“I’d be happier if he stopped creating situations where he has to,” Lancelot muttered. He tweaked his bandages so they weren’t itching so much, then swung his legs onto the bed. “I thought he’d figured out how to stop living like every day was his last. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going away that easily.”

She rolled back to hit his hip. “As if I’m going to leave him to your tender care? Please.”

“Oh, stop being a cunt for once.” Lancelot leaned against the headboard and pulled up his legs against his chest. “He was going to arrange an assassination on our account, Guin. That should be a little bit worrying. But short of stalking him everywhere, I don’t know what else I can do. My God, I told the man I loved him. I can’t remember saying that even to my father. Though he’s a right bastard anyway…”

Guin mumbled something. In the background, the shower was still running.

“What?” Lancelot said.

She turned over to focus her eyes somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. Her cheeks were pinking. “I told Arthur I loved him tonight. More or less.”

“Just today? And I thought you were a smart girl.” All right, that might explain a little bit. But not that much, actually—Arthur tended to go on how he felt about something, not how others felt about the same subject.

“Shut up. You don’t have a clue about what you’re talking about,” Guin snapped, shoving her face into the pillows. She pushed at Lancelot’s hip again, then shoved herself up into a sitting position. Her hair flipped into her face so her expression couldn’t be seen. “You think that’ll curb him any in the future?”

Lancelot wanted to say yes right away, but he couldn’t. He irritably blew out his breath and slid down onto the mattress to stare at the ceiling. “It’d better, but I don’t know. But you know something else that’s worrying me? What if we end up having to shoot someone Arthur knows? And not someone he hated the way he did Cedric.”

“Well, I’d think he’s already considered that possibility.” Guin caught Lancelot’s look and made a face. “On the other hand, given today’s performance…”

They fell silent. So did the shower, and a moment later Arthur came out with water still dripping from his hair. He sat down on the bed on Guinevere’s other side, then stopped to look at them.

“Should I move to the couch?” Arthur finally asked, half-joking. The joking half wasn’t very lighthearted.

“Don’t be even stupider than you’ve already been today,” Guin said, pulling him farther into bed. She crawled over him, stealing a kiss along the way, then snuggled up to his other side.

Lancelot felt Arthur’s arm brush up against him, but didn’t turn towards the other man. Instead he pushed himself up on his good arm and looked down at Arthur. “You’re a lot more work than I expected,” he said quietly.

Arthur nodded, eyes briefly shuttering. His hand bumped up against Lancelot’s and Lancelot took it without thinking. That was it, then—no easy life and probably no real end, but a constant process. Oddly enough, he felt grateful for that. Or maybe it wasn’t so odd, since that meant there was a chance.

“Well, you did come back. You’d better make that mean something,” Lancelot added. He started to lie down and winced. Damned shoulder.

Arthur half-sat and helped him down, then leaned over to turn out the light. Lancelot wrapped his arm around the other man and closed his eyes, but it was a while before he could sleep. He stayed up and watched Arthur instead.


End file.
